The Writer Next Door
by Garbozzington
Summary: Claire Walker writes novels, rather poorly for a lack of inspiration, frustrated with life and her tragic past, she moves into a new flat, 221C Baker Street. Will she get along with her new neighbours? Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

**First Sherlock story, set just before the Blind Banker, I've already written up about 20 000 words, so I'll definitely be uploading more if this is well received. Also I changed a few things here and there to fit my OC  
><strong>**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Claire Walker**

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><p>I cursed under my breath as I realized how late I was running. Mrs. Hanson or whatever was expecting me half an hour ago, I wasn't supposed to screw this up, I really needed this flat.<p>

Finally 221 Baker Street came into view, I pulled my oversized beige trench coat closer to me as the wind sliced through and chilled me to the bone.

I reached out for the metal door knocker, my hands hidden in my sleeves to conserve warmth. I had barely rapped it once when the door opened, causing me a bit of a start.

An older woman greeted me with a staggering amount of manners so rarely found in this day and age, "You must be Miss Walker, come on in dear, I'm Mrs. Hudson, we spoke on the phone."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, and I'm really sorry I'm so late," I shook her hand with enthusiasm as she waved off my apology.

"Nonsense dear, I'm still surprised you even want to see the basement flat in person, after seeing those pictures on the real estate website," she leaned in, "You can leave now and I won't be offended."

I chuckled, "Of course not, I'm sure it's lovely, I mean what I've seen so far certainly is, so why should the downstairs be much different?"

It could have been worse, the wallpaper was a faded and a bit puckered in some spots, the floor could use a nice scrub and maybe a coat of varnish, other than that, it suited me very well.

"I don't know what you were on about, Mrs. Hudson, it's not nearly so bad as you implied," I said as I signed the necessary paperwork at her kitchen table.

"I'm so glad you like it," she signed her parts before looking back up at me, "So when do you plan on moving in?"

"Well I'll be needing to buy some furniture and get it delivered, I hope that won't be a problem, but I was hoping I would start sleeping here as soon as possible, tonight even."

"Absolutely!" she cooed, "It'll be so nice having another woman in the house, and such a pretty one too."

She rose from the table and walked to the stove, "Fancy a spot of tea?" she gestured to the teapot.

I chewed the corner of my lip considering her offer, "Yeah sure, why not."

"Only this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper," she said not unkindly as she bustled about preparing food and drink.

"So the website mentioned there's another renter in the building?" I asked as I fiddled with the edge of the polyester table cloth.

"Yes, they live upstairs, lovely young fellows," I cast her a curious look, "They're not that sort, although Mrs. Turner next door has got married ones." She turned back to the sandwiches she was making, "Anyways, Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes are very nice, sometimes a bit rowdy but they mean well, and I do owe Sherlock after what happened in Florida..." she trailed off.

"What do they do? For a living I mean."

"John is a doctor, he was in the army, but he got shot so now he's back, I'm not sure he's gotten another job since, though."

I could tell Mrs. Hudson enjoyed talking about others, so I pressed further, extorting her gossiping nature to learn more about my neighbours. "What about the other one, what does he do? They can't both be unemployed and afford a place in London."

"Sherlock, well he's a bit different, he's a detective of sorts, works with the police now and then, smart as a whip that one, I've seen him at work, it's very interesting," Mrs. Hudson returned to her seat across from me as she waited for the kettle to boil.

"How about you Miss Walker? What do you do?"

I smiled, "Please, call me Claire, I, uh, well I'm a writer, not a journalist or anything, I write novels, if you could call them that."

"How neat," Mrs. Hudson was cut off but the sharp screech of the kettle coming to a boil.

"Oh I just had a wonderful idea," she said joyfully as she got the tea brewing in the pot, "Why don't we go upstairs for lunch? I'm sure the boys will want some food anyways, they can be such bothers sometimes," she shook her head light-heartedly.

"They might be working, or busy, I wouldn't want to intrude."

"Nonsense, the sooner you get to know them the better, grab that tea tray from above the refrigerator, would you?"

"Boooooys?" Mrs. Hudson called as she knocked, "You wait here," she said before opening the door without waiting for a reply

I stood in the hall, not wanting to partake in such an awkward meeting, "I'm not your housekeeper," "Oh, she is quite lovely," "Please put away the gun, you'll scare her off, you maniac." Other than Mrs. Hudson's orders, I could only make out a few unintelligible male grunts from behind the door.

I was beginning to think they'd forgotten about me when Mrs. Hudson peaked her well-groomed head out the door and waved for me to enter.

"Hullo," I said as I took in the scene before me, a man a few years older than myself sat in an armchair near the unlit fireplace. He had sandy blonde hair with a bit of grey in it, he looked tired, but not just the tired you get from missing an hour or two of sleep, he looked a kind of tired that uncommonly graces such a young face.

The other man was pacing in the kitchen, he wore plain but sophisticated clothes, this made me feel underdressed in my ratty old jeans and flannel shirt. His hair was a dark mop of curls that fell over his pale forehead, his cheekbones stuck out in a dignified manner. He kept turning away as he paced so I was unable to get a good look at his eyes, he seemed to be mumbling to himself.

"Hello there, John Watson, nice to meet you," the man sitting down got up wearily and shook my hand with a firm formal fist.

"Claire Walker," I said as I juggled the tea tray in order to shake his hand.

"Oh, you can just set that in the kitchen, make yourself at home, have seat, eat a sandwich," John smiled.

I walked over to the kitchen, I could faintly hear Mrs. Hudson filling Dr. Watson in on me in a hushed voice.

"Hi," I said meekly to the tall man in the kitchen.

"John, it seems we've run out of milk again," the man said without looking at me.

Once I realized he was talking to me I wasted no time in correcting him, "I'm not John, he's talking to Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, yes that's right you're the girl Mrs. Hudson was blathering on about," he said, matter-of-factly.

"That's me," I said, as I looked at his face straight on, trying to get a good idea of what he was like. His eyes were a very pale blue, cold, calculating, I could tell that he was observing me too, not just my eyes, but my sleeves, my hair, everything.

"You're a writer," he stated, as I'm sure Mrs. Hudson had told him.

"Yeah," I replied, "You're a detective," I decided to utilize Mrs. Hudson gossip.

He gave me a curious look then held out his hand, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Claire Walker, I said as I grasped his long, slender fingers in mine, my hand felt cold, even after such brief contact, I tucked my hand up into my sleeve before grabbing a sandwich and returning from whence I came.

"You've met Sherlock then?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Yeah, he's..." I trailed off, "He seems interesting."

John chuckled, "So Claire, can I call you that? What do you do?"

I smiled to show I didn't mind his use of my first name, "I thought Mrs. Hudson told you both when I was in the hall, Mr. Holmes seemed to know well enough."

John and Mrs. Hudson shared a fleeting glance, the meaning of which, I couldn't quite glean.

"Yeah he does that, it's, uh, well, how can I explain this?" John mused, "He figures things out, like when I met him, he noticed my tan so he knew I'd been abroad, it was only on my hands and face, so he knew it was on business. The way I held myself and my haircut, caused him to conclude that I had served with the armed forces."

"That seems a bit hokey," I said skeptical, about his so called detection skills.

"The ink smears on both your hands suggest you work with ink, no one just writing a memo could possibly have spilt so much. You don't have the rough callused hands of a print worker, you're not tidy enough to work in a photocopy shop, nor would you be able to afford your own flat if you did. Who would write by hand when they presumably had access to a computer? Someone who enjoys it, finds it poetic, not a journalist, they have to type anyways, so if not a journalist, a novelist. Your hands are well used, thin but strong, both of them, you must be ambidextrous, you switch hands when one gets tired. The thing that really drove it home was the was you observed me; not in an analytical, logical way, in a descriptive and imaginative way, like you were trying to write my story."

I could tell Watson and Hudson had seen this party trick many times and knew his in and outs because they didn't seem all that surprised. I was curious to know just how much he knew or could guess about me, "Wow, what else do you know?"

He walked over near the couch with his slender fingers clasped behind his back, "Your living on your own, in a fairly pricey flat, but you're a writer, writing only pays well if you're either very good or very fast. Judging by the fact that you're settling for a basement flat, not in the best condition, I'd say very fast, you write penny dreadfuls, I've never seen you're name on any that I can recall; you use a pseudonym. You're ashamed, you wish you could write real stuff."

He paused and looked at me then smiled slightly as if he just realized something, "You couldn't write so many bad novels so quickly without a computer, not a single publisher would accept a hand written manuscript, you've never published anything you've hand written. You do use a computer for that writing but to keep your preferred work separate, you hand write anything you think might one day be worth using your real name on."

"Well this was fun," I said abruptly standing up, trying not to seem to put off, "I'm gonna go reevaluate my life choices."

I left to the protests of Mrs. Hudson, and John lecturing an apathetic Sherlock, I quickly trotted down the stairs and whipped my jacket and bag off Mrs. Hudson's kitchen chair.

"Does it come in blue?"

"This is an 'everything must go' sale, love," the crusty old salesman replied trying to remain professional.

"How 'bout red?" I squinted up at him.

He rolled his eyes, "'Everything must go' means it all needs to go, this is the only one we've got left, you should have come sooner if you wanted a choice."

"The vomit orange and snot green, just aren't really doing it for me," I said, purposely being difficult.

"Look are you gonna buy the futon or not?"

"I'll take it," I went for my wallet and payed begrudgingly.

"If you just lift the end a bit, it'll fit round the side!" I shouted over the brightly coloured futon.

"Don't tell me what to do you mangy street whelp," The moving man said gruffly.

"Oi, don't call her that, she's paying you good money to do a job, so you do it her way or piss off," Said a firm voice from the hall behind the mover.

John had come down the stairs on his way out and clearly heard me be insulted by the one of the two men manhandling my new sofa bed. The men just scowled before following my previously voiced directions and finally making it into the tiny front hall.

"Thanks, Dr. Watson," I said as he came down the stairs to stand next to me.

"Call me John, and it's the least I can do after you endured Sherlock's psychoanalysis," he looked slightly ashamed, even though it wasn't his fault, obviously he felt responsible for Sherlock's actions, like a parent would a child's.

"It's okay, really, I'm not in the least bit completely disturbed by it," I joked, even though he didn't laugh. "Hey I'm sure I'm not the first person he's scared off," I lowered my voice, "I doubt I'll be the last either."

"Too right you are, anyways I best be off, good luck with the move, and really don't pay attention to what he said."

Unsure whether he meant the insults of the movers or his flatmate's startlingly accurate analysis of my life.

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><p><strong>Please Review, I won't upload more unless I know people enjoyed it (that's a lie I probably will anyways)<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**I was pleasantly surprised by the reviews, you guys rock! **

**Happy Reading :)**

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><p>My fingers were rubbed red and raw from scrubbing the filthy floor of my new home. Ever since Sherlock said those things about me, I haven't been able to bring myself to write, about anything. Let alone the silly little romantic mysteries I write to make a living. I actually really needed to finish the latest one if I wanted to make this month's rent.<p>

I wasn't sure why I didn't feel like writing, it's not like I cared about his opinion, I had only met him once. It just bothered me that he was able to see so clearly into my life, when I had always thought myself such a mystery.

I just needed to get back in the writing mood, I needed to do the thing that always helped me feel more in control of my mind.

I considered leaving the house to do it, but decided Mrs. Hudson and her other tenants ought to know the worst about me before I continue to live here. When I couldn't think straight I found screaming an efficient way to clear my mind, not into a pillow like a child having a tantrum. Part of the effect was in hearing something so loud and raw, it was basically all there was, you thought of nothing else. Sometimes it even felt like I was letting out my unwanted thoughts with the scream, I'd never had difficulty getting over writer's block if I gave a good strong shout.

I opened my mouth and emitted a guttural screech, so loud I had to clamp my still soapy hands down over my ears. I howled and screamed until my throat was raw and my ears were ringing. I had barely moved my hands from my head before there was loud banging on the door and eventually John was standing in my scantly furnished apartment with Sherlock behind him. I must have looked in a right state, kneeling on the floor, hands red as beets, my hair falling out of its tie.

"What the _bloody hell_ was that?" Watson asked, slightly outraged.

I opened my mouth but only a small growling whimper came out, I cleared my throat and spoke softly, "I just needed to clear my head so I could finish my latest paperback in time for rent."

"You can't just do that, you can't just scream like that and not expect anyone to come," I could tell, he was very frustrated with me.

"Look I'm sorry, it's just that's how I clear my head when I can't think, which essentially is all his fault," I pointed my soapy finger in Sherlock direction.

"Now I apologize if this seems a bit rude, but I've just thought how to finish my latest crap book and I'd like to get to it," I walked to the door and closed it firmly.

"Oh my God," I said having read over the last chapter of _The Stolen Heart_, "Truly is dreadful," I muttered to myself as I printed my manuscript. I double checked the page count before carefully placing it in my safe, along with some of my more expensive possessions.

I peered in all the drawers and cupboards, not a speck of food in site, grabbing my coat, I headed for the door, assuming a trip to the shops would do me and my stomach some good.

"Oh hello," I greeted John as he came down the stairs, I hadn't spoken to him since the day before, when my screaming nearly gave him a heart attack.

"Hi," he opened the door for me awkwardly, "Where you headed then?" he asked as we both tried our hands at getting a cab.

"Just doing a bit of shopping, you?"

"Same actually, care to split a cab?"

"Perfect," I said grateful for the company, as we were finally spotted and a cab pulled up alongside us.

"About yesterday, John, I'm really sorry about my, uh, disturbance, I'm only now realizing how foolish I was, doing that without warning, what with you being a." I paused not wanting to say it, "Well you being a war veteran and all, I'm sure I must have scared the bloody daylights out of you."

"Look, I've dealt with worse, in my own flat even, I was just worried something had happened to you or Mrs. Hudson, no need to apologize."

After a moment or two of silence he said in a slightly joking manner, "Weird habits must be a prerequisite to live at 221 Baker Street."

"What do you mean?" I asked curious who other than myself he was referring to.

"You met Sherlock, you can't really think he's a normal bloke?"

"Valid point, I'd forgotten about him," I lied, "What about you? Do you have any weird habits?"

"None that I can think of off hand, I mean I write a blog."

"I'd hardly call that a weird habit," I chuckled lightly, "Seems like Sherlock and I are the biggest weirdos at 221, mostly Sherlock though."

"Of course," he laughed as we left the cab and entered the brightly lit and equally colourful grocery store.

"So what did you mean yesterday when you said it was Sherlock's fault you couldn't think?" John asked casually as we perused the frozen dinners section.

"Well you heard all that stuff he said to me about my writing," I said vaguely as I picked out a half a dozen frozen dinners at random and added them to my buggy.

"Yes but why would the opinion of a total stranger bother you?" he asked grabbing several cartons of milk as we rounded the corner into the dairy section.

"It wasn't really his opinion was it? It was just an observation, albeit a very specific and accurate one. But an observation none the less, it just got me thinking, what am I doing? Why don't I have anything other than my wretched paperbacks to show for my hard work?" I ranted down the produce aisle.

"If Sherlock was right then that means you're writing a more important novel as well?" I nodded. "Well then just think how much better that novel will be, the longer you spend perfecting it. And between you and me, Sherlock is pretty clueless about certain things, literature being one of them." He grabbed a bag of apples and I did too noticing the marked down price, "I mean don't get me wrong, he's an absolute genius, but when it comes to anything more than basic literature, he's not very well-versed, especially the modern stuff."

"Yeah, you know what, that actually makes me feel a bit better about all this," I looked at him and smiled, genuinely for the first time since before I moved, "Thank you John for making my pathetic plight, less of a plight."

"Anytime," He replied as he began ringing his items through the self-checkout and I waited patiently behind him.

"Item not scanned. Please try again," The mechanical voice chimed at John, as he scrambled with the scanner.

"You think maybe you could keep your voice down?" I stifled a laugh as I mindlessly flipped through the pages of this month's Cosmo.

He shot me a look before the machine finally allowed him to proceed, "Card not authorized. Please seek alternative methods of payment."

John's face reddened as the people behind me all let out an exasperated sigh, "Do you have any cash?" I asked.

He shook his head, "Move over," I slid my card into the machine and payed for his and Sherlock's groceries, ignoring John's protests.

He kept quiet as I payed for my things and we both waddled out of the shop under the great weight of our groceries.

"You really didn't have to do that," He said as he closed the boot of the cab and opened the door for me.

"Sorry, next time I'll just let you starve," I joked.

"Good point, but really I'll pay you back as soon as we get home."

"No rush, I just got a massive royalties cheque from, _Undercover Lover_, so I'll be okay for a while."

"So you really do write, those terrible books then?" he said through his laughter at the name.

"I do," I smiled, "They aren't all that bad, I mean if your a housewife or a teenage girl, the titles always throw people off 'cos they're just so _cheesy_."

I hefted one of my bags out of the trunk and John grabbed the other before I had a chance.

"Do you really not use your own name?"  
>"Never," I replied.<p>

"What name do you use?" he asked as he scraped past the door I held for him.

"I've got a few, Donna LeBlanc, Lucy Wilds, Vanessa Harlem; they're all rather girly but statistically those types of names on those types of novels help attract more of the targeted audience. Something about identifying with the author, I'm not really sure," I unlocked my door and John, carrying some of my bags with his, followed me into my kitchen.

"So Sherlock was right then?"

"About what?"

"You saving your real name for a good one?"

"Yeah, I just can't bare to be associated with any of them, I mean the grammar and whatnot is fine, and not to brag but they're much more well written than some of the tripe out there but the plots are just..." I paused for lack of the right word.

"Garbage," John offered as I finished putting the perishables in the fridge.

"Yeah," I smiled, "Garbage, so anyways thanks for helping me carry that in, you want a hand taking your stuff up?"

"That'd be great, that way I can pay you back."

"You really don't need to worry about it," I grabbed the closest bag and started up the stairs to the main floor.

"You took your time," Sherlock said to John as he entered their flat.

"I almost didn't get the shopping," he replied abashedly.

"What? Why not?" he asked, not even noticing my presence as I crept into the kitchen to put away the shopping while they bickered.

"I had a row in the shop, with the chip and pin machine," he said causing me to laugh out loud.

"You had a row with a machine?" he asked incredulously.

"It just sat there and he shouted at it, very funny actually," I offered, trying to lighten the mood.

"Have you got any cash?" John asked as he took his coat off, "Claire being the angel that she is payed for our things because my card wasn't working."

"No only my card, I need to go to the bank first," Sherlock replied, looking at me for the first time since we had met.

"Yeah," I mumbled, "No problem, well I best be off, you know where to find me then yeah?" I backed slowly out the door.

Around eleven the next day I got a knock at the door, "Who is it?" I asked before getting up from my pit of despair. The futon was out, I was propped up with my laptop on my knees, tissues and miscellaneous wrappers littered the blanket.

"Sherlock Holmes," replied a deep, drawling voice from the other side of the door.

"Just a minute," I scrambled out of bed, startled by his visit, I moved my laptop to the table and folded the couch back together without moving any of the garbage, I combed my hands through my hair and finally opened the door, slightly flushed from my ten second tidy.

"Hey," I said awkwardly, "What brings you to 221C?"

"I've come to give you the money you leant John and I," Sherlock slid past me into my home and stood by the door observing everything around him.

"Deducing are we?" I asked as I shut the door.

"Writing are we?" Sherlock asked as he gestured towards the computer.

"Yeah, just one of my penny dreadfuls, as you so eloquently called them," I said.

"Yes, I am sorry if I seemed a bit forward but you did prompt me to tell you what I saw," he said halfheartedly prodding at my bulging couch cushions.

"I know, that's why I didn't expect an apology," I went over to the kitchen and started the kettle.

"Very rational of you," he mused as he took a seat in an old armchair, one of the few things I'd brought from my former home.

"Tea?" I asked him.

"Black two sugars. John thought I ought to come and apologize, even more so because of how generous you were the other day, buying our shopping and whatnot."

"Not a problem," I stirred the sugar into his tea and some milk into mine, "So how's the consulting business these days?" I carefully carried the mugs to the coffee table.

"Quite well, just got a case from an old friend that's tied into a murder, possibly two," he said gingerly sipping his tea.

"I'm glad for the company and all, but why aren't you with John? Don't you usually consult with him?"

"He's at a job interview at the moment."

"Good for him," I smiled.

"Yes well, bad for business, I prefer to have someone to bounce ideas off of, I've gotten so used to someone who responds, would you mind?"

"Would I mind what?"

"Would you mind letting me bounce ideas off you?"

"No I guess not, mind you I have a very small knowledge of detective work, as anyone who read my books would know."

"What do you think of these symbols? Do you recognize them?" he set down his mug and passed me his mobile.

"Wow, those do look really familiar, I'm not sure why but..."

"But?"

"I've definitely seen these before, definitely."

"Do you remember where?"

I paused to rack my brain, "I haven't the foggiest, but if I remember I'll definitely tell you, uh I have some errands to run do you mind?"

"Oh yes, thanks for the tea," He stood and made for the door, "Before I forget here's your money."

He pushed a wad of cash into my hand, "Thanks."

"No, thank you," he gave a small, quick smile before leaving.

The next day I decided to go back to my old flat, maybe look around for awhile, try and remember that symbol. I didn't care about Sherlock's investigation all that much but since I sent off _The Stolen Heart_ I had nothing better to do. It was also kind of irritating that I couldn't remember what it was, because I knew I'd seen it before.

I walked up to the door of my old building, I hadn't returned my key, since it was technically _his_ flat, they never thought to me for it when they cleared out all his things, including myself.

It was musty, and un-lived in, the landlord must not have gotten around to fixing it up yet. It was a bit of a shit hole now that I looked back at it, I walked into the kitchen on the right. There were small gouges in the laminate counter from where he occasionally jabbed a cooking knife when he was busy preparing another item. That was one of the many things I missed about him, the cooking.

The bedroom was probably the only room that didn't give off a damp, rotted odour, probably because the window was usually open. I never understood how he could handle sleeping in such cold. He always ran hot, which was good for me, seeing as he was my own personal space heater on the more chilly nights.

In a moment of fragile nostalgia I laid down on the floor where the bed had once been, "I miss you. You were too young to die, too good, too perfect. Even though we fought all the time I still think you were perfect."

I felt a hot ball in my throat and tears poured from my eyes with passionate heat, I rubbed them away with the heal of my hand. "I didn't get to keep very much, your parents took most of it, I always told you they hated me."

I laid there for a few more minutes crying and remembering things I hadn't thought of since the funeral. I willed myself to stop crying, rubbed my eyes and gave the apartment one last look before leaving the way I had come.

I wandered into a familiar shop, Han and I had visited it a few times just for fun, "You want Lucky Cat?" the woman at the counter asked a customer in her harsh voice.

"Er. No thanks, no" A familiar voice replied.

"John?" I asked, "Sherlock?" I added spotting a dark figure lurking nearby.

"Claire, what brings you down here?" John asked casually.

I was suddenly very self-consciousness, positive there must have been dust in my hair, and my eyes feeling puffy and hot from crying.

"I used to live around here," I said picking up a small figurine to glance at the price, the symbol, "Sherlock, come here," I added with sudden urgency.

He was at my side so quick it startled me, "Look, the symbol you showed me earlier, I must have seen it in here, or another shop, it's a price tag."

"Look do you see it?" I asked when he didn't respond.

"I see it. Follow me," He said before stalking briskly from the shop.

John and I both followed him out into the street where he approached a shop display and picked up item after item, each one with the same sort of marking on the bottom.

"How could I have missed this? It's an ancient number system: Hang Zhou. These days only street traders use it." he informed us.

"I remember Han telling me about it when we first moved here..." I trailed off, captivated by my own memory.

"Han? Who's that?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"No one," I turned away pretending to look at a nearby street sign and willing myself not to cry, behind me I heard John and Sherlock whispering furiously to one another.  
>"Oh never mind that, they were numbers! Written on the wall at the bank and at the library! Numbers in an ancient Chinese dialect!" Sherlock said aloud once they had finished bickering.<br>"It's a '15'. Look. Just here! What we thought was the artist's tag - it's a number '15'." John said with enthusiasm.  
>"The horizontal line, it's not a blindfold, it's a number as well. It's the Chinese number '1'" Sherlock said facing them both, his eyes shining.<p>

"Why don't we discuss this further over a nice hot meal?" I asked mostly for something to say.

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed it, review and tell me what you thought! <strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Loving all the reviews :) Glad my story's well received, hopefully you enjoy this chapter as well.**

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><p>I could see my old my from the window of the restaurant, I sat next to Sherlock with John across from him.<p>

"Two men travel back from China. They both come straight to the Lucky Cat Emporium. What did they see?" John asked, as he twirled some noodles on his fork.

"It's not what they saw, it's what they brought with them in those suitcases," Sherlock mused, he hadn't ordered any food but he was eyeing my plate suspiciously.

"Are you hungry?" I asked him.

"No, I only eat when necessary, my body is just transport, the brain is what's important," he moved the conversation swiftly back to reasoning. "Think about what Sebastian told us about Van Coon, how he kept afloat in the market."

"Lost five million?"

"Made it back a week later, this must be how he made such easy money..."

"He was smuggler?" I ask skeptically, they had filled me in on the major details of the case, which fit the purpose of Sherlock revisiting all the details once more.

"A guy like him - he would have been perfect. A businessman, taking regular trips to Asia."

"So would a journalist," I paused regrettably reminded of Han's last business trip, "They travel a lot too, depending on the subject of their work."

"They smuggled something out, the Lucky Cat was the drop off." Sherlock said.

"Why did they die? It doesn't make sense... If they both turned up at the shop and delivered the goods... why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event? After they'd finished the job?" John asked, staring thoughtfully into his noodles.

"What if one of them was light-fingered?" Sherlock responded.

"You think one of them stole something?" I asked as the picture began to form in my mind.

"The killer doesn't know which one of them took it! So he threatens them both." John exclaimed.

"Remind me: when was the last time it rained?" Sherlock stared distantly across the street.

"Monday?" I guessed half-heartedly.

Sherlock whipped a handful of cash onto the table then leapt up and briskly walked from the restaurant.

"Should we follow him?" I asked through a mouthful of coconut shrimp.

"I believe that'd be best, yeah."

Across the street Sherlock had ripped open the packing of a phone book leaning on the door of the flat next to the Lucky Cat.

"No one's been in this flat since Monday, that's at least three days," he pondered.

"They're away on holiday, so what?" John said logically.

"Do you leave your windows open when you go away?" he pointed up towards the gaping windows, airy drapes getting swept around by the wind. Sherlock took a running start and jumped up to grab the scaffolding, without thinking I jumped on too.

I grunted as I landed on the scaffolding on my stomach, I reached a cold hand onto the grimy step and gradually pulled myself up.

"What the hell are you two doing?" I heard John hiss from below, as I clambered to the window.

I nearly fell inside but Sherlock grabbed my arm with one hand, his other resting on a vase of flowers in front of the window. He slowly let go of myself and vase before proceeding to snoop around the seemingly empty flat.

I walked slowly throughout, my fingers grazed across the delicate embroidery on a throw pillow, I gently touched the painted screen.

"We're not the first," Sherlock said aloud.

"Can you not keep doing this?" I heard John yell from the front door.

"Someone else has been here, someone broke in first," he said.

"How do you know?" I asked walking over to the mantle piece to examine a family photo.

"He knocked over that vase," Sherlock touched the small wet spot on the carpet, "Just like I did."

The picture on the mantle was of two small Chinese children, the frame was dusty and there was a smudged handprint on the frame.

"Size eight feet," I saw Sherlock leaning closely towards a wrinkle in the carpet, "If someone was here why didn't they close the window when they left?" I asked looking back at the window.

Sherlock slapped his head, "Stupid, it's so obvious, he's still here," Sherlock started looking around behind furniture, he pulled back the Chinese screen.

Terrified, I tried to back myself into a corner so I'd at least see them coming, I stepped on something firm but still soft. I didn't get a chance to turn around before there was a cloth cord around my throat.

Sherlock was in the other room and I couldn't breathe let alone scream, I flailed my fingers skimmed the lamp as I tried to bring it to the floor, hoping the crash would bring him to my rescue.

I tried to call out to him, "Sher- Sherlock," not nearly loud enough for him to have heard me. Upon hearing the name I called my attacker mysteriously let me go and crept to the other room. I sat on the floor clutching my throat coughing and wheezing, I struggle to my feet and grabbed the lamp.

I tripped in the hall and the lamp shattered, bits of ceramic everywhere, he had half-strangled Sherlock but let him go when the lamp came down. I only just saw his shadowy figure climb out the window.

I collapsed on the floor next to Sherlock, "You alright?" I whisper with all that is left of my voice.

"He got away?" his voice barely audible.

"Of course he did, he nearly killed us both, God only knows why he didn't," I leaned against the wall and rubbed my throat.

"Are you okay?" he asked me, his voice still more gravely than usual.

A loud thumping came up from the front door, "What the bloody hell are you two still doing in there?" John yelled irately from the street.

"I'm fine let's go," I stood and offered Sherlock a hand in getting up.

He reached into his pocket once on his feet and pulled out a black origami flower, "Why didn't he kill us?"

"The milk's gone off, and the washing is starting to smell, someone left here in a hurry three days ago." Sherlock said in a huskily damaged voice.

"Someone?" John asked after Sherlock loaded all that information onto him.

"Soo Lin Yao," he pointed to the bell, "We need to find her."

"How?" I asked, my voice cracking.

"We'll start with this," He held up a hand written note that he'd plucked off the doormat:

_'Soo Lin, _

_Please ring me, tell me you're ok_

_Andy.'_

From the back I could see it was stationary, from _National Antiquities Museum_, "Am I still allowed to come?" I asked eager to live out the detective novels I've always written, minus the crap love stories of course.

"Fine by me, are you two okay, you're both sounding a bit croaky?"

"It's nothing," Sherlock replied before I had a chance.

Slightly more boring than our visit to Soo Lin's flat, I tuned out Sherlock and John's interrogation of Andy, instead I just looked at the antiquities. Old teapots, some looked new the way they shined; stone figurines, depicting little samurais. I rounded a corner and saw a display of Jade jewelry, I quickly wandered back to my comrades, the sight of the jade put me off nearly as much as the thought of the neglected ring locked in my safe back at home.

"There you are, hurry up," Sherlock said impatiently upon seeing me.

I followed them without enthusiasm, until we came to the storage room, a large marble statue stood off to the side, its dust cover pooled on the ground at the base.

"She's next," I gasped, taking in the ominous cipher painted on the body of the statue.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao..." Sherlock trailed off.

"If she's still alive, that cipher- he's planning to come after her," John worried.

"That's why we found him in her flat, he was waiting for her," Sherlock explained as we left the museum.

"Sherlock!" a scruffy teenage hoodlum jogged up to us.

"Well look who it is," John said annoyed.

"I've found something you'll like."

We followed the misguided youth all the way to the underside of some decrepit old bridge covered with graffiti and populated by teens smoking, skateboarding and making out. John grumbled bitterly about an ASBO as we approached a heavily vandalized wall, yellow squiggles clearly visible near the edge.

"If you wanted to hide a tree then the best place to do it is a forest, wouldn't you say? People would just walk past it, not knowing - not able to decipher the message." Sherlock droned.

"Wicked!" I exclaimed, still in awe despite the attempt on my life made earlier in the day.

Grinning subtly, either from my praise or the new evidence, Sherlock told us to split up and look for more in the same colour.

After wandering aimlessly for about twenty minutes to no avail, I found Sherlock again and gave my dismal report.

"I found it!" John yelled as he approached us.

Without a word he motioned for us to follow which we did without question. John stopped in front of a black brick wall, not a yellow symbol in sight.

"I don't understand, twenty minutes ago it was here, twenty minutes ago, I saw it, a load of graffiti," John's brows knit together in confusion.

I touched the wall, my fingers blackened as a result, Sherlock grabbed my hand and sniffed my fingers causing me to jerk them back.

He then reeled on John, "Someone didn't want me to see it," he grabbed John's skull with both hands.

"Sherlock! Hey what are you doing?" I laughed at John's expression.

"Shush, John I need you to concentrate, shut your eyes. I need you to maximize your visual memory, try to picture it exactly as you saw it, can you remember it?"

"Yeah, definitely," John said confidently, after having given up fighting his friend's grip on his skull.

"How much of the pattern can you remember?"

"Look don't worry..."

"Because the average visual memory is only sixty-two per cent accurate," Sherlock continued to spin John, his grip still tight.

"Oh, well I remember it all," John replied.

"Really?" I asked surprised.

"At least I will if I can get to my pockets, I took a photograph," He pulled out his phone, rows of the same numeric symbols in the same toxic yellow.

I was glad to finally be back home, far too much excitement for one day, they even asked me to join them for a cuppa and a bit more deducing and decoding but I was far too exhausted to accept. My throat still sore from the attack, my muscles tight from running to the tracks where the ciphers had mysteriously disappeared. Also mentally exhausted, I'm not stupid but being around Sherlock I'm sure Einstein would have felt a bit foolish.

I kicked off my shoes at the door and padded barefoot to my couch and pulled out the bed.

I didn't even bother changing I just collapsed on the bed; after about twenty minutes I realized I wouldn't be able to sleep so I pulled out my safe. Hastily spun the code into the combination lock, it clicked open and I pulled out my jewelry box. Next to some cheap jewelry and some neglected family heirlooms, was the only thing I sought. I flicked open the small, green velvet box, inside was my engagement ring, although I'd only had it for a few months. It was white gold with a round jade stone in the centre, a small shining diamond on either side. I held it at the right angle so I could see the small C.W. and H.Y. engraved in the shiny surface.

I slid the ring onto my left hand ring finger, I never wore it in public because it was so fancy and I wasn't really engaged anymore. It felt good to wear it again, whenever I wore rings I would spin them with my thumb when I was nervous, or anxious or just worried. I closed the safe and crawled back into bed, I fell asleep spinning the ring right near my heart. I allowed myself one night to dwell, and reminisce; in the morning I would return the ring to its rightful place.

Three uneventful days of writing later, I got a knock on the door, " Yes?" I said as I opened the door without undoing the chain lock.

"I have a question," Sherlock said bluntly from the other side.

"Just a second," I sighed, shut the door and undid the lock, letting him in.

"Why didn't you tidy up this time? Last time I was here you folded away your unmade bed and straightened yourself out too," he asked observing my sloppy appearance and the mess, that my writing usually allowed me to create.

"Oh I don't know," I said with frustration, "I guess since we've committed a felony together I'm past caring what you think of my living conditions, why, do I really look _that_ bad?" I asked, tucking my messy hair behind my ear.

"As irrelevant as it is no, you don't really look _that_ bad..."

"So you wanted to ask me something?" I said leaning on the arm of the sofa.

"Yes, may I have a look at your books?" he had already planted himself in front of my overflowing bookshelf.

"Knock yourself out, if you don't mind I'm just going to continue writing," I slid back onto my bed and pulled my laptop towards me.

I tapped away, the character I had centered the latest story on was loosely based on Sherlock, I really hoped he never read it. Seamus Haines, and his sidekick Jacob Wood, Jacob wasn't solely based on John, neither was Seamus but I liked the idea of an inseparable team like John and Sherlock.

Jacob and Seamus were in hot pursuit of a jewel thief when my train of thought was interrupted, "The Adventures of Seamus Haines and Jacob Wood?" Sherlock read the working title from behind me.

"Yeah," I attempted to sound casual, "My latest and greatest."

"Interesting choice of names," he sighed, I could hear the smug smile in his face.

"You're a good detective okay? I admire your abilities and John's dedication so I may have _very loosely_ based these characters after you and John" I ranted.

"Are you busy tonight?" he asked, taking me by surprise.

I craned my neck around to see him, in response he moved to the armchair so I could see him, "Why you need another sidekick? John not good enough?" I joked.

"No," he paused, "On a date?"

My jaw dropped, I recovered as quickly as I could, "What?"

He rolled his eyes, "Yes, it's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"I'm familiar with the concept," I said sarcastically, "I'm just kind of surprised."

"Do you like the circus?"

"Of course," I smiled, starting to see the possibility of fun in this planned outing.

"I'll come get you at half past six," he grinned awkwardly before getting up to leave, "Also, John will be there with his date too."

He popped out of the door before I could react to his last statement, although I must admit the thought of being alone with Sherlock for an entire evening seemed kind of intimidating. Not like John, easy-going, simple, nice John, I'd never think of him romantically of course but he's much more socially conventional than Sherlock, to say the least.

I got up and rifled through my clothing hunting for something decent, I settled on a black skirt with subtle lace trim, and a jewel tone purple sweater. Not too fancy, not too casual, as for footwear, I went with a simple pair of plain black flats.

I did the best I could with my wretchedly average brown hair, never very exciting, I just ended up pinning the sides back. After a quick swish of my mascara I was ready for my 'date' with the world's only consulting detective.

Five minutes earlier than the agreed time Sherlock knocked on the door, "Hello," I said, opening the door for him to come in while I grabbed my coat and bag.

"That's a lovely shade of purple," he said, the unexpected compliment made me unnecessarily flustered and I couldn't find the sleeve of my coat.

"Thanks," I said as his slim fingers grasped my coat from behind so that I might slid my arm in easier.

"Love the scarf," I smiled, attempting to return the compliment, "Brings out the blue in your eyes."

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><p><strong>Please Review!<br>**


	4. Chapter 4

**Would've uploaded this sooner but seeing as is trying to be tumblr and crashing it's taken a bit longer than expected...**

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><p>"So who's John bringing?" I asked breaking the silence in the taxi cab.<p>

"Some doctor or something, I'm not entirely sure."

"That'll be tough competition," I mumbled jokingly.

"What was that?" he stared intently at me.

"I said, 'that'll be tough competition'."

"What do you mean?"

"I was just being sarcastic but I meant that if she decided she liked you better I'd have a doctor to compete with for your attention," I said, blushing slightly in spite of myself.

"Why would you want my attention?" he asked, without even cracking a smile.

"Oh never you mind," I sighed and turned to look out the window at the passing nothingness.

"The Yellow Dragon Circus?" I asked eyeing the poster outside the theatre, "This wouldn't have anything to do with your case would it?" I raised one eyebrow in suspicion.

"It has everything to do with the case, I apologize for the false pretenses under which you were brought here but I need to investigate and it would be unseemly for me to accompany John on his date without bringing my own."

"You could have just told me," I said as we entered the building.

"Would you have come if I had?"

"Probably, as I'm sure might have guessed I don't exactly have a lot going on, socially."

Our conversation was cut short by John's voice, "Oh, no I think that's an error, he only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got another two," Sherlock said as he sidled up next to John.

"Hello then," John said, clearly not glad to have company.

"Sorry," my lips form the word silently so that only John sees, "This is Sherlock and Claire," he said to his date, "This is Sara," he said to us.

We enter the hall, no chairs are set up, people mill about looking at the ring of candles in the centre of the room. A small Oriental woman entered the ring, she was dressed very theatrically, her face painted, a large head-dress weighed down her small frame. The woman pulls the drop cloth from a large oddly shaped machine in the ring of candles. It looks like a larger version of a crossbow, but instead of a trigger there is a small metal dish.

The woman plucks a feather from her head-dress and she drops it into the bowl, just the weight of that small feather set off the machine which shot a large dart into the wooden target across from it.

The severity of it made me jump, I was oddly aware that my arm brushed Sherlock's, "What are they doing now?" I whispered to him as a masked warrior entered the stage.

The woman began strapping him to the wooden target area, "Ancient Chinese escapology act. The crossbow is on a delicate spring. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

"What if he doesn't?" I ask, not really needing to hear the answer.

"Evening ruined, I suppose?" Sherlock replied.

"That almost sounded like a joke," I smiled up at him.

A long rope with a sand bag on the end was lowered to the left of the metal trigger, "What's that for?" I asked feeling like a child.

"They split the sandbag so the sand pours out. The weight is gradually lowered on to the bowl. Classic Chinese circus act."

"I would have been happy with a bit of juggling and a couple of clowns," John said, Sara clinging tightly to his arm.

"I can't watch," I whisper and place my hands in front of my eyes.

"You needn't, let's go," Sherlock's cold hands removed mine from my eyes and he laced his hand through mine, he held up a finger in front of his lips and led me around the audience to the side of the backstage area.

"Stay here and watch out for anyone, if anyone comes near, just ring me," he thumbed his number into my mobile.

I nodded and stood obediently at my post, I could hear the woman introducing the next act, there wasn't enough time to ring him. I tiptoed to where he had gone I came around the corner and was pulled backward by a firm grip on my arm and over my mouth. I panicked but quickly saw that it was Sherlock, his face shone with recognition and he released my arm. A large black duffle bag spotted with yellow paint lay on the floor, Sherlock grabbed a can and read the label while I sprayed a line on the mirror.

"Found you," he whispered.

I stood and was about to go to him when a large masked man screamed at him from a rack of costumes, brandishing his sword at us.

For some reason Sherlock tried to psych out the warrior by pointing towards the stage but this failed and he just got punched in the face.

"Sherlock!" I called out to him and risked a glance my way and I tossed him the paint can, which he then used on his attacker's eyes. Blinded, the warrior slashed his sword at Sherlock's head, I gasped as it stuck in the wall, Sherlock ducked just in time.

Sherlock then tackled him into the curtains separating us from the audience, I followed, attempting to assist the consulting detective. John dove on the attacker but was thrown off with a punch, I attempted to do the same. A large fist connected with my eye sending me sprawling onto the floor bottom first. To my right the Warrior is advancing on Sherlock, before I could react Sara brought a giant wooden plank down on the man's head, momentarily stunning him.

Sara scampered over to the heap of debris where John lay groaning, I remained on the floor, head throbbing. Sherlock grasped the heel of the man's shoe and ripped it off revealing a small black tattoo of a flower.

"We're leaving now!" I grab Sherlock's arm and pull him in the opposite direction of the half-concussed warrior. The four of us ran from the chaos into the night.

"I sent a couple of cars, the old music hall is totally deserted," Detective Inspector Dimmock stated.

"We were just there and it was crawling with the Tong," I said even though I knew I should stay quiet.

"Look... I saw the mark at the theatre, the tattoo we saw on Van Coon and Lukis, the mark of the Tong," Sherlock said, glancing curiously at me from the corner of his ice blue eyes.

"They were part of a smuggling operation. One of them must've stolen something when he was in China; something valuable.

"These circus performers - they were gang members, sent here to get it back," Sherlock added.

"Get what back?" Dimmock asked.  
>"We don't know," John said sheepishly.<p>

"You don't know?" Dimmock leaned back letting out an exasperated sigh, "Mr. Holmes, I've done everything you asked. Lestrade, well, he seems to think your advice is worth something... I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it. Other than a massive bill for overtime," he ranted before showing us the door.

"They'll be leaving the country soon?" I asked as I sunk into one of the armchairs and examined the collage of evidence above the mantle.

"They won't leave, not without finding what they came for. We need to find a hideout... a rendezvous," Sherlock steepled his fingers and stared intently at the wall of yellow ciphers. "Somewhere in this message, it must tell us..."

"Well I think maybe I should leave you to it," Sara piped up from where she stood behind the desk.

Simultaneously, Sherlock agreed with her and John insisted she stay, "Never mind them," I said sensing her discomfort, "I'm gonna go back down to my flat to change and while I'm there I'll order some take away for all of us."

She smiled and nodded and John put his arm round her shoulder and gave me a thankful look, I winked at him before heading down the stairs.

"Wait Claire," he said before I had a chance to leave the appartment, "Your eye?"

"Oh yeah, got sucker-punched," I mimed a punch.

"You're going to have a black eye from that," he said in a motherly way, before gently probing the skin without permission.

"I'm fine," I waved him off.

"Maybe you should like Sherlock a bit less, might be safer for you," he smiled, Sherlock didn't even seem to notice.

"Whatever," I smirked before descending the steps from 221B.

No longer concerned about impressing my false date, I changed into more simple attire: jeans, a hoodie and a light jacket.

I lumbered up the stairs, the Oriental food seeping heat through the paper bag and onto my arms, I hurried into John and Sherlock's flat to put it down.

"Food's here!" I called as I struggled to shut the door. Greeted by silence I shouted again as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, placing the bag on the counter I pulled out a fortune cookie.

"Oi, John! Sara! You'd better not be in the bedroom!" I chuckled to myself as I turned to walk to the window, peeling back plastic on the cookie. The cookie left my hands with a shocked yelp, "What the bloody..." I trailed of as my eyes landed on the same yellow cipher Sherlock had been obsessing over for ages.

"John, I've got it. They key to the cipher. The book. It's the London A to Z, that's what they're using..." Sherlock trailed off as his eyes flickered from my face to the window.

"They're gone, I just got in but they're gone, they took John and Sara," I babbled.

"Shush, the cipher means 'Deadman' we need to find them now and I think I know where we need to look."

We crept silently into the opening of a long, dark, abandoned tramway, light from several fires casting gruesome shadows on the wall. We could hear Sara whimpering from her position in front of the dart shooting contraption from the circus.

A heavily accented woman interrogated John about the hair pin Sherlock had informed me about on our way to the tramway. She kept calling him Sherlock, she thought he was Sherlock Holmes, and that he'd been searching for the missing hair pin.

"I'm not Holmes," John said exasperated and delirious sounding.

"I don't believe you!" the woman shouted stubbornly.

Sherlock motioned for me to be silent before stepping out into the moonlight being cast into the mouth of the tunnel, "You should, you know."

I stared at his dimly lit silhouette, wondering how he could be so brave while still seeming to only care for himself. He snapped his fingers at me and motioned for me to go around in the shadows and sneak up on them. Further than that I didn't know what he expected me to do so I grabbed a length of rusty pipe from the floor, just in case, and crawled through the debris keeping close to the tunnel walls.

"Sherlock Holmes is much more... dynamic, resourceful, brilliant," he trailed off as I heard several crashes and the light from one of the fires must have been put out because it got even darker. I slipped and felt a sharp pang of heat in my right hand and felt the blood well up and seep out of my palm.

"It's me, John, be quiet," I found my way to John first and tried to undo his bonds, my fingers trembling and the blood oozing from my palm. I heard Sherlock lecturing the woman about what might happen if she fired her gun into the tunnel.

I almost had his hands free when I felt my breath go short, and the all to familiar sensation of being strangled. My worn, sore fingers scratched at the fabric as I gasped and grunted trying to free myself.

In the struggle I pulled my attacker to the ground and John's chair tipped sideways onto the ground with a thud.

Sherlock, still being held at gun point could do nothing to help us, I grappled around on the ground until I finally gripped the metal length of pipe. I swung behind my head and felt it connect with a horrible thwack. The cord went slack, my ragged breathing coming slowly back to me, I crawled past John and tried to get to Sara, seeing as the weight was mere centimetres from the dish.

My attacker regained his consciousness much sooner than I had hoped, and had come at me once more. My pipe lying on the ground where I left it I was defenseless. I tried to sidestep him but he grabbed me roughly and wrapped the silk fabric around my throat once more.

My eyes tearing up I caught a glimpse of the weight sinking faster than before, it rested in the bowl and I zipped my eyes shut waiting for it to end the life of an innocent woman. I heard a grunt too manly and too close to have been Sara, the fabric loosened around my neck and I gingerly opened my eyes.

Sherlock was standing behind the dart mechanism which had moved a bit to the left in order for it to have stabbed my attacker who was bleeding out on the ground behind me. He moved quickly shushing Sara who was crying uncontrollably, his nimble finger tugging at her bonds.

Not even bothering to pull the red scarf from my neck I staggered over to John and undid his ties and sunk to the ground as John rose from the chair, rubbing his wrists he went to Sara.

Sherlock came over to me and pulled the scarf gently from around my neck, "Are you okay? Your eye..." his cool fingers grazed the skin just beneath my eye.

"Oh that," I said releasing the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, "That was from the other Chinese smuggler."

He ignored my attempt at humour and his fingers went to my neck, I didn't think he realized how intimate these touches were, or maybe it was just in my head, "What about your neck?"

"Splendid," my voice hoarse and gravely from its recent trauma, "Thanks for," I looked over at the corpse, "Well thanks for that, although I should probably be thanking God for your impeccable aim."

Sherlock, laughed, deep and sincere. Giddy and slightly hysterical, I chuckled at his contentment despite the blood flowing from my hand and the bruises forming like a choker on my neck.

I sat on the back of the ambulance, a scratchy, thin blanket around my shoulders and a wad of gauze encasing my recently stitched up hand. I could see Sherlock and John talking to Inspector Dimmock from where I sat, I clutched the blanket tighter and slipped off the bumper.

"I'd best take Sara home, it's the least I can do after such a dreadful date," John said patting me on the shoulder as he passed by.

"We'll just slip off, no need to mention us in the report," Sherlock said casually to the Dimmock, who had begun to protest.

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector, a glittering career," Sherlock smiled before walking off in the opposite direction of the parade of law enforcement.

"Are you in shock?" he asked eyeing the blanket shrouding me.

"No, just a bit chilly and let's face it, it gets dreadfully cold in 221C, I could always use another blanket," I smiled, my fingers warmly holding the fabric.

"How's your hand? Hope it doesn't hinder your progress in the story of Seamus Haines and Jacob Wood" he smirked looking down at me from his peripherals.

"Well it could have been worse," I mused as we wandered to the main road.

"How so?"

"You should know Sherlock, I'm ambidextrous, you said so yourself," I said casually.

"Yes, quite," he paused, "I expect I'll be allowed a peak or two at your manuscript for Seamus Haines, seeing as I inspired him."

"We'll see Sherlock, we'll see."

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><p><strong>Please Review if you want the Great Game(already written) and maybe a random chapter in between episodes<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, sorry for the wait, I've been attempting to get into University, anyways, this chapter starts at the beginning of The Great Game.**

**Also Claire is a couple years younger than Sherlock, in case anyone was wondering.**

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><p>I yelped in surprise as I heard several gunshots ring out above me, "What the bloody hell are they doing?" I asked myself, before running from my flat, still wearing my pajamas.<p>

I saw Watson on the stairs, we shared a look of worry before ascending the stairs, John leading the way.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Watson shouted at Sherlock as he stood in the doorway.

"Bloody hell," I said as I peaked around John and saw Sherlock pointing his gun at the wall. John turned and plugged his ears and made to shield me from Sherlock's shots.

The shooting stopped and my eyes flashed to John, his face a mask of irritation and bewilderment, he quickly took the gun apart and hid it away in his desk. Sherlock stood in front of the couch staring at the wall where he had wounded it. A large yellow smiley face had been spray painted on the wall, bits of dry wall and wallpaper were crumbling around deep holes in its face.

"Bored, I'm bored, don't know what's gotten into the criminal class, but it's a good job I'm not one of them," Sherlock droned.

"So you take it out on the wall?" John asked as though he were about to ground a moody teenager.

"The wall had it coming," Sherlock flicked a bit of wall towards the window.

"And I thought my screaming thing was an annoying habit," I added, leaning on the door frame.

He collapsed on the couch with a dramatic sweep of his robes, "Come on in Claire, if you chose to be subjected to his madness you might as well be comfortable," John gestured for me to come in.

I sat silently in the green arm chair usually occupied by Sherlock, "What about that Russian case then?" John asked as he took of his jacket and sat in the chair next to me.

"Belarus, open and shut domestic murder, not worth my time," He sighed with exasperation before perking up unexpectedly. "You would have enjoyed the man's company Claire."

"Me?" I asked, assuming I'd misunderstood, "I would have enjoyed the company of a murderer?"

"Well I was being slightly sarcastic, I only meant that he was..." he searched for a word, "Eloquent."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he were sure didn't hurt her no more once she weren't breathing no more," he chuckled.

"I really do hate it when people use poor grammar, there's simply no excuse," I mused, "It doesn't sound right to say 'I seen him' but people do it anyways."

"I knew you'd enjoy that," Sherlock smirked.

John rose from his chair and walked to the kitchen, "I'll leave you two to your literary deductions, anything to eat? I'm starving."

"Oh!" John exclaimed as he slammed the refrigerator door, "A severed head?"

"Just tea for me thanks," Sherlock said, his eyes closed and fingers folded.

"No there's a severed head in the fridge!"

"Oh, that's my mobile, I'll just be back in a tick, gotta take this call," I lied poorly before slipping out, I could sense that they would be bickering before long and I tried to avoid such awkward situations.

I arrived on the main floor just in time to see Mrs. Hudson struggling with the shopping.

"Here, let me get that," I relieved her of the two largest bags.

"Thank you Claire, darling, that's the boys' groceries, would you mind taking it up to them, a weight like that up a flight of stairs wouldn't do my hip any good."

"Of course," I replied sweetly.

"I'll leave yours on the landing honey!" she called after me despite the fact that I'd told her not to worry about getting groceries for me.

John nearly ran past me on the stairs, I was almost glad, because if they weren't even in the same room how could I interrupt an awkward fight.

"Are you two fighting again?" I asked as I walked right in and placed the bags on the table.

Without a word to me Sherlock rose, and walked right up over the coffee table and to the window, his blue robe askew and his brown hair a rumpled mess; much different than his usual casual chic approach to fashion.

"Where do you think John's gone off to then?" I asked as I ripped open a bag of baby carrots and starting nibbling on one.

"Forget that, just look at it out there. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful?" he asked bitterly.

"Yeah, if only we had a good rape or murder," I said sarcastically as I walked over to stand next to him by the window, "Hope it doesn't rain..."

"What do you care, you never leave your flat," Sherlock said bluntly.

"Says you, mister 'the wall had it coming'," I joked.

Sherlock turned to the wall and smiled a creepily wide grin at the yellow smiley, before sighing and looking down at me.

We were thrust from the window onto the floor to the sound of a brain-rattling boom and shattered glass tinkling all around us. I had been standing fairly close to the window and felt the glass pitter patter over my thin t-shirt, occasionally catching the bare skin on my arms and nicking the soft, pale flesh.

I was too shocked to move, my head ached from the noise and force behind whatever had just blown in the windows. I heard Sherlock groan on the floor next to me, he must have started to get up or roll over because I heard glass crunching near me.

I moaned as I moved my arms from where they were shielding my head, "Claire?" I heard Sherlock grumble next to me.

"I'm fine, you?"

"Also fine."

When I had finally resolved to move, the dust had settled a bit and I could see Sherlock's lanky frame lying face up next to me. Careful of the glass I propped myself up on my stomach and elbows, "Still bored?"

"Not nearly as much as I was," he said in his typical monotone.

"God you're weird," I said I gingerly stood up from the floor.

"Oh and you're not?" he stood gracefully and began brushing off his silky robe.

He held out a hand to help me up, "No I'm quite average and ordinary and really, compared to you who isn't," I grasped his hand and was nearly lifted off my feet. I brushed my fingers over the tiny red cuts I had managed to attain being so close to the window.

"You really think I would keep company with anybody less than remarkable," he said factually, as though he didn't realize that could've been misconstrued as a compliment, had he been talking to anybody else.

The blood on my arms smeared under my fingers, none of the few cuts were bad enough to need any medical attention, they stung though, the pain comparable to paper cuts.

"Put this on," I had barely noticed Sherlock slip away.

"Why?" I asked, taking the dark grey long sleeved thermal shirt he thrusted towards me with his lithe hands.

"Your arms are bleeding and the window's open now so you're bound to catch a chill in that," he gestured to my short sleeved shirt

I nodded, "Thank you," I murmured slipping on the shirt.

"Oh my," Mrs. Hudson said from the doorway.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, are you okay?" I rushed to the old woman who had been so accommodating since I'd moved into 221C Baker Street.

"Oh, I'm quite alright, how about you two?"

"We're quite alright Mrs. Hudson, and before you mention the windows I'm sure they'll be covered by insurance."

"I think it'd be best if you both stayed downstairs tonight, too drafty up here, much safer in the basement," Mrs. Hudson said in a motherly way.

"I'll be fine up here," Sherlock said, "My room doesn't face the street."

"And besides, there's no where comfortable to sleep in my flat, other than my bed," I lied, I had recently purchased a real bed, my futon had seen little love since this purchase but however selfish, I didn't welcome the idea of having Sherlock sleeping so much nearer to myself than usual.

"Well I know that but I assumed it wouldn't be a problem, seeing as how close you two are," Mrs. Hudson reasoned innocently.

"Alright then, I'm off to bed, g'night Sherlock," I nodded up at the consulting detective, "Good night Mrs. Hudson," I squeezed her hand gently before heading back home.

"Claire open up!" there was loud thumping on my door, I rolled over, "It's me," he paused, "It's Sherlock Holmes!"

I threw my pillow over my head, now that I had abandoned my futon for a plush queen size I rarely got up much earlier than eleven. I glanced at the brightly lit display on my alarm clock, quarter past nine, not a chance I'd get up for anybody, not after last night's excitement.

I had barely closed my eyes again when more shouts rattled into my ears, "Claire! Claire! Where are you?" Sherlock continued to shout my name.

"Oh for Christ's sake," I mumbled pulling the pillow tighter to my head.

"Claire!" Sherlock shouted in the doorway of my bedroom, I rolled away from the side of the bed closest to the door. Unfortunately I overshot and rolled right off the bed in a flailing mess of blanket desperately clutching a pillow.

"She's in here!" Sherlock called to whomever he was with as he came round my side of the bed.

I was suddenly very aware that I wasn't wearing much in the way of clothing. Other than the shirt Sherlock had leant me the previous and the pair of shorts I had switched into when my legs started sweating. On top of that my hair was in a right state, hanging in a loose, tangled braid down my back.

"I'm moving out," I groaned as I sat up.

"Are you alright? Did he say anything to you, hurt you in anyway?" Sherlock knelt down next to me and grabbed my arm, slid my sleeve up and scrutinized my arm. Not finding what he was looking for he grasped the sides of my head and looked directly into my sleepy eyes.

"Oh my God, you've truly gone insane," I flung up a hand to cover my mouth as I yawned.

"Sherlock?" John asked from the doorway.

"Not now John," Sherlock responded impatiently.

"Did you hear or see anything odd at all last night?" Sherlock asked, still holding my cranium in his nimble fingers.

"Well other than the massive explosion, no, and you already know about that because I was lying next to you in the rubble." I rubbed my eyes, "Seriously what are you on about?"

"What time do you remember going to sleep?" he asked ignoring my question.

"Is that you shirt Sherlock?" John asked, I could practically hear him stifling a smile, I felt my face get hotter in spite of myself.

"Look Sherlock we haven't got all day and clearly she doesn't know what's in her living room." An unfamiliar voice said.

I placed my hands on Sherlock wrists and pulled his hands away from my face, "My living room? What's wrong with my living room."

I rose, quickly remembering my lack of appropriate leg wear I grasped the top sheet from the floor and wrapped it around my shoulders thankful that it hung well past my shorts.

"Who are you?" I asked the prematurely grey-haired man standing next to John by my bedroom door.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, sorry for the intrusion, it's a bit of an emergency."

"I hope you'll excuse my appearance, I was, well I was sleeping," I said.

"In Sherlock's shirt," Lestrade snickered

I ignored his implicating remark and sat on my bed as they filled me in on the mysterious phone found in the strong box of the house across the street, the message with the pips, and the picture of my living room.

"So then _what _exactly did they put in my living room, what've _I_ got to do with it?" I shrugged past Lestrade and John and made my way to the living room where what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks.

I dropped to my knees at the sight of the shoes, I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I covered my mouth with a shaking hand as Sherlock dropped to the floor and examined the shoes not noticing my reaction.

"Fascinatingly odd isn't it?" he asked, assuming I had dropped to my knees for a better look.

"He's a bomber remember," John said to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood and I crawled back from the shoes and leaned against the wall next to the sofa. At that moment someone's phone rang, Sherlock pulled out a pink phone and clicked speaker phone.

"Hello sexy," a weeping female said.

"Who is this?"

"I sent you a little puzzle just to say 'hi'" despite her crying the woman spoke stiffly as if she were a young child reading aloud for the first time.

"Who's talking why are you crying?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not crying, I'm typing and this stupid bitch is reading it out," the caller revealed, "Twelve hours to solve my puzzle Sherlock or I'm going to be so naughty."

John and Lestrade wore haunted and disturbed expressions while Sherlock looked positively intrigued. I still sat curled in a ball crying silently.

"I know those shoes," my voice a trembling whisper.

"You do?" John asked curiously.

"Miss Walker?" Lestrade asked with just as much curiousity

"That's not my real name," I said, "I took my mum's last name after my parents split in 1991."

"Who do these shoes belong to?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes flashing between myself and the shoes.

"They only split because of my brother, he died, he died very young."

"Did these belong to your brother?" Sherlock asked, his tone changing as he sensed my distress.

I nodded, the tears flowing freely now, "He drowned when he was fifteen, he would have been about you're age now," I said to Sherlock.

"What was his name? What was your brother's name?" Sherlock pressed, I could tell he was only interested in the case now, only interested in not being bored.

"Carl," I felt the hot lump in my throat from crying, "Carl Powers."

"Oh... Carl Powers," Sherlock whispered clearly in a daze.

"What is it Sherlock?" John asked noticing the distant expression on his friend's face.

"It's where I began..." he trailed off as he stood and walked to John and Lestrade, obviously not wishing me to hear what he was about to say. "1989, champion swimmer comes up from Brighton for a competition drowns in the pool, tragic accident, you wouldn't remember it, why should you?" Sherlock whispered without emotion.

"But you remember it don't you?" John asked, "Something fishy about it?"

"Nobody thought so, nobody except me," Sherlock confirmed.

"So what's this got to do with our bomber?" Lestrade asked impatiently.

"Isn't it obvious? He wants me to solve the mystery I missed the first time, I was only a boy, I read about it in the papers."

"Started young," Lestrade stated.

"He had, had some kind of a fit in the water, but they couldn't get him out in time, but there was something wrong, something I couldn't get out of my head. His shoes, those shoes, they weren't there, I tried to make a fuss and get the police interested but they didn't seem to think it important. He'd left everything else in his locker, there was no sign of his shoes until now."

"My dad thought it was weird too," I piped up from the corner, startling the three, who clearly didn't think I was listening. "That was one of the first things they disagreed on, my mum thought they were stolen; they were nice, Carl loved, them, he'd gotten them for Christmas the previous year."

"He must have known your real name, he must have known you were Carl Powers' sister, why else would he have chosen to leave them in your flat?" Sherlock wondered out loud.

"Maybe he thought you might need a clue, and I'm the perfect clue aren't I?" I replied my volume rising with irritation, the tears now drying on my face making it feel hot and constricted.

"She's got a point, but what puzzle does he want you to solve, if the boy just drowned?" Lestrade asked.

"He didn't just drown he couldn't have, it wouldn't be a game if it were that simple," Sherlock with a calculating look in his eye.

"This _isn't_ a game!" I straightened up to give my words more meaning, than had I been cowering on the floor, "This was my brother's life, swimming was his life and _it_ killed him, nothing else, end of story. My father thought he was murdered too, he drove himself mad with it, crazy conspiracy theories about government involvement. For a time he even thought _I_ did it..." I rubbed the heel of my palm against my eye roughly as the tears started coming again. "_Me_. I _adored _Carl. I _idolized_ him. My father never realized that though, at least not before he killed himself." I was nearly shouting, and it all came out so fast it made my head spin, and throb.

"Claire," John said kindly, "Oh Claire, I'm so sorry no one meant anything by it, we had no idea," John tried to apologize.

"I think you should go," I looked up directly into Sherlock's piercing blue eyes, "All of you, and take those God forsaken shoes with you!" I strode to my bedroom my modesty about the shorts forgotten as I left the sheet pooled on the floor.

I slept away the rest of the day, waking up periodically to cry my eyes dry, I allowed myself one day to be a pathetic whimpering mess, one day to mourn.

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><p><strong>Please review! a few more reviews and I might upload a second time this weekend! (not making any promises but it could happen)<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Hope you like it, thanks to everyone who's given reviews thus far!**

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><p>The next morning I awoke early and read the paper before I showered and ate breakfast.<p>

"Hello?" I asked, my ear pressed to my mobile, a spoonful of cereal in my other hand.

"Hello, Miss Walker, it's Daisy Carmichael, your publishing agent I've just heard from Stonewall Publishing," said the familiar but always chipper voice on the other end.

"You know you don't have to introduce yourself _every_ time Daisy, and really, please call me Claire, we've been working together for, what is it, five years now?" I said through a mouthful of cereal.

"Yes, Miss Wa- I mean, yes Claire."

I smiled despite how mournful I'd been feeling lately, "Anyways what're you calling about? Did they read Seamus Haines yet?"

"Oh yes, they _loved_ it, absolutely adored it; that's why I'm calling actually, they want to know whether you'd consider using your real name this time."

I thought for a moment, "No, I don't think so, but I'm not using any of my frilly little pseudonyms, no I need a new one for this."

"Do you think it'd sell better if the author seems androgynous?" Daisy asked even though she probably already knew the answer.

"They always do don't they..."

"So initials then?"

"Yes, um, do I have to decide right this minute?"

"Erm, no I don't suppose so," she paused in thought, "Actually this works out quite well, because there's another reason I called."

"Oh really, what's that?"

"Well, they enjoyed the first one so much they were wondering if you'd want to write some more? Something like a five book contract?"

I nearly spit out the tea I was drinking, "You're joking? they want more of that rubbish?"

"Yes, well they certainly don't think it rubbish, they also wanted you to tone down the romance, it might sell to male authors if the romance is subtly slipped in?"

"When do I need to come in?"

"Well they were hoping today actually."

I tapped the counter considering my options, continue writing horrid little romances with no real idea what I was writing or continue with these, semi-decent mysteries.

"How much?"

"Beg pardon?"

"How much are they prepared to offer for a five book contract?"

"Oh, uh, let's see," I heard her rustling papers, "They've offered a substantial advance, and then all the subsequent payments are negotiable depending on the sales of the first book."

"Sounds alright, you know what yeah, I'll do it, but no pictures and I'll write the bio," I haggled.

"Yes, yes, and it'd be best if you had a pseudonym in mind when you get here, they'd like to include it in their records."

"Great, I'll be there at one." I hung up the phone and leaned back on the counter, a somewhat steady job, in a manner of speaking. All I needed to do was keep coming up with mysteries, and a love story also but that's nothing new.

I was genuinely proud of myself for the first time in ages as I opened the door of a near empty conference room in the Stonewall Publishing Building.

"So before we get out all the paperwork Miss Walker, how did you want to proceed with the issue of your name. We know you often use a pseudonym, and Miss Carmichael here mentioned you were thinking androgyny would be best." The suited man, who's name had already slipped my mind gazed at my unkempt hair and wrinkled button up.

"Yeah, I told Daisy I'd be using initials, but not mine of course, how about, H. W. Powers?" It had taken me a considerable while to settle on that name, the 'H' and 'W' obviously for my inspirations, Holmes and Watson. The Powers for Carl, who never go the renown he deserved.

"You're sure that's the one you want?"

"Positive," I said as he slid the contract across the table, little 'x's scattered about, marking the bits that needed signing.

Feeling the need to celebrate I bought a cheap bottle of red wine on my way home. I changed in my bedroom without turning the light, not bothering to make sure I was wearing clean clothes.

I scoured the kitchen for a corkscrew, I even got to the point where I'd have settled for a screwdriver.

Frustrated I threw on a bathrobe and the pair of brown leather boots crumpled by the door and jogged up the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, "Mrs. Hudson?" I knocked, "It's Claire."

"Hello, dear, what is it? Not mould I hope?" she opened the door

"No," I shook my head, "No nothing like that, I was just wondering if you had a corkscrew?"

"Let me check, come on in," The older woman bustled around the kitchen scouring her drawers and cupboards, while I stood awkwardly by the door.

"I'm afraid I've misplaced mine, I'm sure Dr. Watson has one, all those girlfriends of his," she gossiped.

"I thought he was still with that doctor, Sara? Oh never mind," I smiled, "Maybe I'll see if they're home.

Determined not to see Sherlock until he'd apologized for yesterday morning I texted John: **'Do you have a corkscrew?'**

He answered seconds later: **'Are you okay after what happened yesterday?'**

Typical, I avoided his prying and re-sent my original text.

**'Are you entertaining?'** he sent back.

**'That's none of your business, do you have one or not?'** I replied, getting frustrated.

**'Well if you're drinking because you're upset about the other day, I'm sure it'd be healthier to talk to someone.' **

"Oh for Christ's sake," I murmured, **'Thanks for the tip DOCTOR but I'm playing this new game, I take a drink every time I get sad, do you have a cork screw or not?'** I decided to lie about my drinking just to spite him.

**'Sherlock feels bad, he wants to talk to you.'**

Just then my phone started vibrating in my hand, **'Blocked ID'** I debated ignoring it but thought better seeing as it may be someone from Stonewall.

"Hello?"

"Claire, it's John, will you come up for a cup of tea?" John's firm steady voice asked reasonably.

"Do you have a corkscrew or not? I bought a bottle of wine, I haven't got one, and I'm not in the mood to go to the shops and get one."

"Fine but you have to come up and get it, Sherlock needs to speak with you," he responded stubbornly.

I violently flipped the phone shut and ran up the steps two at a time, stopping near the top to catch my breath.

"Where's John?" I asked bluntly as I slid past Sherlock into 221B.

"He's out," he replied, mimicking my blunt response.

"With Sara?"

"No, he's out on business," he walked to the kitchen and grabbed a corkscrew from one of the drawers by the fridge.

I held out my hand expectantly, "Thanks."

He moved it towards my hand and then pulled it back, "I didn't mean to make you upset," he turned away awkwardly fidgeting with the corkscrew.

I opened my mouth to speak but couldn't find anything I felt I should say, because he did make me upset, and he couldn't undo it.

"Sometimes I'm not very good at reading people."

"We both know that's a load of bullocks," I scoffed.

"I mean, sometimes I don't know when to stop, to avoid hurting people, especially when there's a mystery involved. You have every right to be cross with me," He looked genuinely conflicted.

"I know I have," I kept my arms folded tightly over my chest.

"Which is why I am apologizing for my inappropriate behaviour towards you yesterday and I hope you are able to forgive me."

I was nearly positive John had told him what to say, but he did seem very sincere when he said it, I also did over react a bit. How could he have known about my dad and Carl, and he was always insensitive, I hadn't been his neighbour very long but I did know that much about him.

"Why should I forgive you?" I asked, simply taking advantage of him now.

He seemed slightly taken aback, "I am genuinely sorry Claire, I consider you," he seemed at a loss for words.

"Oh it's alright," I waved him off, trying to avoid the awkward moment that would follow him labeling our acquaintance with each other, "I forgive you," I said with minimal enthusiasm, "But you have to understand I was upset because painful memories were brought up, half my family died, that's not something a person _ever_ fully recovers from. And you coming in and blathering on about 'the game' well it made it feel trivial, it made my family's suffering and my own problems feel trivial."

"You must know that those were never my intentions, sometimes I get," he struggled for the right words. "I get so wrapped up in my own mind that I lose sight of what others are thinking or feeling and the social conventions that I ought to abide by."

"I understand," I said, "Well not really, I mean I understand what you're saying but I certainly don't understand what that's like. I write fluffy little romances for a living, thinking about people's emotions is in the job description."

"Well now that we're," he was momentarily unsure what we were, as was I, "On good terms again, I'd been meaning to ask, how is _The Adventures of Seamus Haines _going?"

I was taken aback by the casual tone in his voice, he spoke to me as comfortably as he did to Mrs. Hudson, that detective fellow I'd met the previous morning, or even Watson, his constant companion. I felt as though I'd entered his tiny group of confidantes, as though being offended to the point of traumatization was some sort of initiation.

"Fantastic actually, everyone loves Seamus, I've got a five book contract, I signed it this afternoon actually."

"Congratulations, I imagine you're on your way out then?" he glanced at my attire, I could tell he had deduced exactly what I'd be doing, but I appreciated the feigned ignorance.

I laughed, "No, that's actually why I needed the corkscrew, I was going to sit in my flat drinking wine all by myself, like the spinster I am destined to become." I droaned before I could stop myself.

"Would you like to stay up here for a while?" Sherlock asked, "So you're not alone that is..."

"I'd like that," I smiled, "I mean, that'd be nice, uh, I'll just go and get the wine..."

My heart raced as I ran downstairs, I wasn't sure why, I mean of course Sherlock was somewhat attractive and obviously brilliant. But he wasn't kind, he was insensitive and infuriatingly full of himself. In all honesty he was the complete and utter opposite of Han, the last man who had caused my heart to beat quite so rapidly. Why should I be so excited at drinking wine with him?

I arrived back upstairs, wine in hand, to find Sherlock perched on his chair shouting abuse at the television.

I laughed as I uncorked the wine, "Did you want a glass?"

"No thank you, it dulls the senses as I'm sure you know."

"Isn't that sort of the point?" taking a swig straight from the bottle before pouring some out into a mug, for lack of a better receptacle.

"What _are_ we watching?" I asked appraising the chavs and paternity tests flashing across the screen.

"It's really quite amusing, I believe they call it trash telly," Sherlock smirked.

"Quite right too," I smiled.

We heckled the idiots on the show, by that I mean I heckled and criticized while Sherlock deduced. I also continued to drink more and more, my head getting fuzzier with every glass.

After our second or third episode, Sherlock turned off the television and sat on the couch on the other side of the room.

"What is it?" I asked sipping my drink.

"Oh I'm sick of that rubbish," he sneered.

"Do you ever go to the cinema?" I slurred

"No, why?"

"Just seems like you don't do much other than solve puzzles and make potions and that," I replied draining my glass and wobbling into the kitchen.

"I think you've had enough," Sherlock had slinked into the kitchen behind me, my hand disappearing as he placed his overtop to stop me from topping up.

"Are you cutting me off?" I stared up at him, oddly aware of how close we were.

"You're going to regret this little indulgence in the morning," he mused gently taking my mug and putting it in the sink.

"Well you'll have to take the bottle too if you'd like me to stop, I'm celebrating," I said irrationally.

"Don't be foolish," he chided me as I made to grab the bottle.

He grasped the bottle, his reflexes much quicker than mine due to the alcohol and downed the last inch or so.

"Oh that's quite dreadful," he grimaced before setting the kettle to boil, "How have you been drinking that?"

"I've gotten you drunk!" I exclaimed, stumbling towards the counter.

"Not in the slightest," he moved toward me.

"Well I got you to take a drink, that's got to be a first, at least in the presence of a female, tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wearing my shirt," he said breathily as he looked down at the wedge of grey showing in the gap of my robe.

"So what?" I challenged and moved to leave the room.

I stumbled a bit and felt a cold hand slip around my waist, "What _are_ you doing Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm helping you to the sofa, seeing as you're rather incapable at the moment."

"I am no such thing!" I exclaimed as I flopped down resting my head on the arm rest of the sofa as Sherlock sat at the opposite end, taking up very little room.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked referring to the uncharacteristic way in which he was gazing at me, had I been sober I would've kept quiet.

"I think you ought to know what really happened to Carl, I understand if you don't but I think you might appreciate this knowledge."

That sobered me up a bit, "Okay... but please don't be, well this just sounds mean, but you probably understand, don't be yourself when you say whatever's on your mind, be John, be Mrs. Hudson, I don't know if I'll be able to handle it otherwise."

"Fair enough," he went silent for a moment, "When I was analyzing your brother's shoes, which were perfectly preserved mind you, I found a few bits of his DNA. As you know he suffered from eczema."

"Yeah he had a cream for it, smelled awful," I said, longing to smell that awful smell once more, to see that crushed tube of ointment by the bathroom sink.

"Yes well someone poisoned his cream, that's how he died, someone murdered him..." he waited for my reaction.

My grip tightened around the edge of the cushion I sat on, "Who did it?"

Sherlock filled me in on the events of the past two days, pausing every now and then to make sure I was okay. His concern although most likely feigned was a strange thing to behold, to say the least.

"I can't believe my dad was right, I mean he never got any real evidence but he was right, it wasn't an accident..."

"Can you think who it might be? I know it was a long time ago but were there any kids who felt victimized by Carl?"

"No, but it was a long time ago and like I said, I idolized him, why remember the bad when there was so much good," my eyes felt misty once more.

"I'm sorry if that upset-"

I cut him off, "I'm fine you needn't keep apologizing I'm not _that_ emotionally unstable," I rubbed my eyes with my hand. "You can laugh, that was a joke."

He sat up on the couch, "Are you using your real name on the Seamus Haines books?" his question took me by surprise but I answered none the less.

"No, I decided to keep with the pseudonyms, to be honest I doubt I'll ever put my real name on anything, I'm too content with my level of obscurity."

Our conversation went on in a similar manner until at some point I closed my eyes and they stayed that way.

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><strong>Please Review!<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry it's been so long, I really should update this story more often seeing as I've already got so much already written, I'll probably post the rest of The Great Game soon. Also I absolutely LOVE you guys for still reviewing even thought it's been months since I've updated.  
>Disclaimer: I own nothing but Claire Walker and her crappy novels :)<br>Anyways thanks for coming back if you've already read it all so far and thanks for reading if you're new to this story!**

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><p>I awoke lying on the couch in 221B Baker Street, a blanket tangled round my legs, a crick in my neck and a pounding in my head. I groaned and stretched out my legs before swinging them over the side of the couch to get up.<p>

There was a note pinned to the end table by a jackknife:

**Went out with John, didn't want to wake you. **

**Help yourself to the fridge. **

**Back later, **

**S.H.**

I rose and folded the blanket, slightly embarrassed at having fallen asleep in the apartment of a strange man with whom I had no romantic relationship. God only knows what Mrs. Hudson would say if she knew, which she probably already did.

The hot water flowing over me in my own shower of my own flat was a comforting thing after such a strange couple of days. To find out my brother had been murdered by some crazy bullied psychopath, to think there was an outside force responsible for the death of half my family.

I was barely able to process this information and decidedly pushed it to the back of my mind. Hopefully Sherlock would find whoever was behind all the bombs and the murder of my brother and that would be the end of it.

I slipped on a bathrobe and towel dried my tangled hair in the kitchen while I channel surfed.

"Claire, it's me John?" I heard a familiar voice at my door.

"Morning John, what can I do for you?" I asked as I opened the door.

"Do you know anything about journalism?"

"Yeah, I used to work for _The Metro_ before I started writing novels. I also used to live with one of the top reporters for _The Daily Mail_, why?" my chest constricted thinking about Han, the man I should've celebrated with last night.

"You'd better get dressed, I need your help."

"Okay, so once more, just to make sure," I prodded John in the cab on the way to Kenny Prince's home.

"You're Claire Walker, junior editor-in-chief of Runway, I'm Jacob Wood you're assistant. Remind me, why must I change my name?" John asked with a look of confusion across his face.

"Just in case they recognize your name from the blog, it's just a precaution, alright we're here let's go."

I rapped on the door confidently, "Hello, Mr. Kenny Prince?" I reached out and forcefully shook his hand.

"Yes, um, who are you?"

I feigned a look of confusion, "Jacob? Did I not ask you to set up an interview with Mr. Prince?" John just stared at me vacantly, "Assistants," I smiled, "What can you do?" I leaned closer to semi-whisper to Mr. Prince, "He's a simple lad but he usually does as he's told."

"Not a problem..." he paused for me to tell him my name.

"Claire Walker, from Runway," I shook his hand once more before he let us into the house.

"What the hell was that about, 'he's a simple lad' good lord you're starting to sound like Sherlock," John hissed at me as we followed Mr. Prince to the living room.

I shushed him quickly and straightened my stiff yet fashionable, suit jacket and skirt, I got back into character as my heels clicked across the tile and into the den.

The chubby white haired man leaned on the mantlepiece as though posing for a cover shot.

"Can I get you anything?" A handsome Spanish man asked John and I.

I shook my head and John politely declined.

"Raoul is my rock," Prince said dramatically, "Without him I don't know how I would have managed. We didn't always see eye to eye but Connie was very dear to me."

I mimed writing to John and he immediately pulled out a notepad and pretended to record the interview.

"And the public Mr. Prince, she will be sorely missed," I said.

"Oh she was adored, I'd seen her take girls that looked like the back end of route masters and turn them into princesses."

"She truly had a gift, you should have seen me before I started watching her program," I lied, gesturing to my put together ensemble.

Prince gave a weak smile, "Still it is a relief to know she is beyond this veil of tears."

The creepy bald cat that had been meowing at John starting climbing on his notepad. "Absolutely, you poor thing," I glared at John as the cat meowed again but he gave me a look as though he were trying to say something.

"Sorry, Mr. Prince do you mind I have quick word with Jacob, just silly journalism talk all deadlines and that," I said before pulling John out by the arm.

"The cat," John said in an urgent whisper, "It's the cat, it reeks of disinfectant, we need Sherlock."

"Okay let's go back in there act normal, I'll figure something out," I replied, an idea of what to do already budding in my mind.

"Sorry about that, you know I'm just so stricken with the way you look right now, there's so much pain and sorrow. It'd make for a lovely photo, maybe we could take a few snapshots for the article, give the public a glimpse into your mourning?" I said eagerly.

"Yes, I suppose that'd be alright, Connie would've wanted me to put on a brave face," he said solemnly.

"Marvelous, let me just phone up my photographer Seamus," I dialed Sherlock's number.

"Claire?" he asked from the other end.

"Hi, Seamus? Yes it's Claire Walker from Runway, Jacob and I are just interviewing Kenny Prince for next month's issue." I lied hoping Sherlock would understand.

"What is it, what've you found?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Oh, I know, such a brave man that Mr. Prince is," I shot a grin over at him, then winked at John.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Sherlock stated.

"My thoughts exactly Seamus darling, I want you to grab your camera and get your cute little tush over here ASAP, mustn't keep Mr. Prince waiting, cheers love," I knew I'd hear about that tush comment later, potentially from both John and Sherlock.

"My cute little what?" Sherlock asked before I hung up, I knew he would come and God knows how but he'd bring a camera.

"Alright so Seamus is on his way here, if you don't mind I'll just go and wait for him out front, he is wretched with directions," I smiled at John's worried expression, "Jacob here will get the rest of the story, if that's alright."

I walked out the way I had come in, in the kitchen I noticed a couple of suspicious glass bottles and an unopened syringe. Keeping an eye out for Raoul I stuffed a bottle and syringe in my jacket pocket before continuing out the door.

Out on the front step I took a closer look at the bottle, "Botox?" I read it aloud.

"Mrs. Hudson said she messed about with herself too much, what do you think?" a familiar baritone said from behind me.

"_Bloody hell_ Sherlock!" I jumped.

"What've you found?"

"Well John thinks it's the cat but I'm not too sure, this might be a bit of a clue, but we'd better go rescue John and you can have a look for yourself."

"Ah here they are," I heard John say as the door shut.

"Mr. Prince is it?" Sherlock asked, shaking hands with the older man, "Very good to meet you, so sorry about..."

"Yes, yes thank you, very kind," Mr. Prince replied, before turning to the mirror to fix his hair.

As Sherlock got the camera ready John whispered, "You were right, the bacteria got in another way."

"Not too close, I'm raw from crying," he said as Sherlock's camera clicked and flashed away inches from his face.

"Oh who's this?" Sherlock asked as the bald cat rubbed up on his leg.

"Sekmet, named after the Egyptian goddess."

"Lovely little thing," I cooed, "Was she Connie's?"

"Yes, little present from yours truly," he stooped and picked up the cat.

"Is the lighting alright Seamus?" John asked, thankfully remembering Sherlock's alias.

"Sorry," Sherlock said before setting off the flash in Mr. Prince's face, blinding him so much so that he didn't notice John grabbing at the cat's paws before sniffing his fingers.

"What're you doing? What's going on?" Mr. Prince asked, agitated at the commotion.

John gave me a curt nod as Sherlock stopped the flashing, "Well I think we got what we came for, let's go boys."

"What?" they asked in unison as I headed to the door.

"We've got deadlines!" I snapped my fingers before exiting the room.

"But you've not taken anything!" I heard Kenny Prince cry in protest.

"Yes! Oh Yes!" John laughed as we walked down the path.

"You think it was the cat? It wasn't the cat," Sherlock smiled at John's reaction.

"What? Yes it was, it's how he got the tetanus into her system it must be, it paws stink of disinfectant," John reasoned.

"Lovely idea," replied Sherlock, condescending as ever.

"What about the Botox?" I asked pulling out the Botox and needle.

"Much more lovely idea," he smirked, his approval cheered me far too much for my liking.

"No, he put it on the claws of the cat, new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy, scratches almost inevitable." John persisted.

"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother."

"He murdered his sister for her money," John said skeptically.

"Did he?"

"Didn't he?" I asked, wondering at any other motives he might have had.

"Nope it was revenge."

"Revenge for what? Awful style?" I scoffed.

"Kenny was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out. Virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough, fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny, Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle..."

"Okay, wait," John stopped us walking, "What about the disinfectant on the cat's claws?"

"Raoul keeps a very clean house, you came through the kitchen door, you saw those floors, scrubbed within an inch of their life. _You_ smell of disinfectant; the cat doesn't come into it." Sherlock started walking again, "Raoul's internet records do, though. I hope we can get a cab from here."

"Well _I _thought it was a good idea," I patted John on the shoulder before speed walking to catch up with the consulting detective and nearly breaking an ankle on my Runway magazine heels.

"As Claire was so uncharacteristically brilliant to point out, it was the Botox, I've known all along."

"Okay, hold up," I placed my hand on Sherlock's chest to stop him, "I'm always brilliant," I said in reference to his subtle insult, "Also what do you mean you've known all along? How could you keep it a secret and risk a human life."

He glanced down at my hand still splayed out on his chest, which I frantically stuffed into my jacket pocket.

"Don't you see, we're one up on him. Anyways John and I have some business at the Yard, and I think you'd best head home now Claire, you're still looking a bit tired from last night. We wouldn't want you emotionally _and _physically drained, where would I be without my authorial authority," he winked before pulling out his phone and dialing for a cab.

"Last night?" John looked a me bewildered.

"Let me know when you find my brother's killer," I said bluntly before wandering off in the opposite direction.


	8. Chapter 8

**As always I'm astonished by how many kind reviews I get, you're all fantastic! **

**Happy Reading!**

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><p>Once home I pulled out my computer, intending to do a plot outline for the next Seamus Haines book. However I found myself opening and internet browser and searching my brother's name.<p>

I got a few haphazard news articles from around the time it happened, then at the bottom of the page was a link to a blog. A blog in the name of John Watson, naturally I clicked it and read the post about my brother and the other ones as well.

John had written up all Sherlock's cases, since they had been living together anyways. He mentioned me in _The Blind Banker_ as he called it, he mentioned that I was Sherlock's date.

"He thinks I fancy him!" I shouted as I read John's analysis of my rickety friendship with his flatmate.

I was perturbed to find his description of me as so flimsy and flaky, willing to follow Sherlock anywhere, I'd need to have a word with him on that.

Oddly enough the more I read of the case about my brother the more it became clear to me, through John's little observations that he thought Sherlock fancied me also. He wrote about the shirt and the fact that I slept on their sofa, he wrote an entire paragraph about Sherlock wishing he hadn't been so insensitive about Carl.

None of Sherlock's comments on any of the posts involving myself acknowledged anything John said. Which could mean he didn't want anyone to think John was right, or he simply couldn't be bothered because it was ridiculously false.

I feared as to which it might be, then chided myself internally; how could I think about my accursed love life when multiple lives were in danger. All because of the person who killed my sweet, kind, innocent brother.

I realized how deeply I was overanalyzing the events of the recent past so I decided to turn in early, still slightly exhausted from the previous night's celebration.

The next day passed as uneventful as they usually did when I wasn't around Sherlock Holmes. I got up from my surprisingly productive marathon writing session around dinner time and wandered into the kitchen to toss a frozen dinner into the microwave.

I heard my phone buzzing, muffled by the pillow it was jammed under, **'I'm sure you don't want to but do you think you could check on Sherlock?' **

**'If I must'** I replied to John's test begrudgingly before heading upstairs, I decided to get it over with before my dinner had cooked.

I heard footsteps before I opened my front door, I pressed my ear against it before opening it and peering through the sliver.

Sherlock's remarkably lithe figure moved to the door, I thought nothing of it and went up to 221B to see if John was in.

Unsurprisingly the door was open, surprisingly no one was in, Sherlock's computer sat open on his armchair. Failing to suppress my nosey nature I looked at the screen. 'Found the Bruce-Partington Plans. Please Collect. The Pool. Midnight.'

I had a feeling I knew exactly which pool he was talking about and who he was meeting there. I ran back to my flat and grabbed a coat before hailing a cab to follow Sherlock, I wanted to meet the man that ruined my family.

Before I could get the attention of a cabbie, I felt a rough grip on my shoulder, I spun around coming face to face with a fist.

I awoke to the smell of chlorine in my nose and feeling all kinds of sore, my body ached where it was touching the hard tiled floor of an unknown room; my body felt heavy. I soon realized the excess mass came from the jacket I was wearing, it was not my own, it was weighted. I opened my eyes to complete darkness, I instinctively tried to move my hands to my face but was unable to move them from behind my back. I felt a dull pain in my wrists which told me I must have been restrained, I struggled but could tell it was a zip tie and I wouldn't get out without something sharp, my ankles were also bound in the same way.

My head throbbed, I was about to ask if anyone was there when I heard a far off but familiar voice.

"Catch you later," Sherlock said slowly, from somewhere far off.

"No you won't!" shouted a high-pitched voice that was decidedly much closer to me. I squeezed my eyes shut as the darkness, which was a black bag, was removed from my line of sight. I squinted up at the figure of a man, a fairly good looking, man, very professional and well-dressed, but his eyes told a different story. There was something familiar about him none the less, however I was unable to place it.

"Carl Powers' little sister, I told them not to hurt your pretty face," he knelt down and stroked the hair framing my face, "You grew up to be a striking young woman, although I suppose you'd have to be to attract Sherlock Holmes."

"You killed him, you killed Carl, I remember you now, you were in the year above me at school, younger than Carl. You were the one who wore floaties in the pool?" I asked, memories flooding my brain.

The man's eye twitched, "He laughed at me."

"You ruined my family," I spat in his face.

He wiped away my spittle with the black bag, "And look how you turned out, comrade of the great Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective. Which, mid you, has worked out splendidly for myself, you've made this whole thing that much easier. Little Carl would've been so proud."

I nearly went blind with rage as I struggled against the tie at my wrists, "You bastard! How can you look at me and talk about him, you killed him, he'd barely lived yet and you just took it all away!"

"So emotional, don't know why Sherlock's so found of you, then again, maybe he isn't, let's find out shall we?" he had a crazed look in his eye and his fluctuating pitch of voice was unnerving, but I tried not to show my discomfort.

He rose and pulled a penknife from his pocket, efficiently slicing the tie on my ankles, sensing my anger he moved away quickly as I lashed out a kick aimed for his maniacally pretty face.

"Naughty, naughty," he chided in a sing song voice before grabbing me roughly and dragging me through a nearby doorway.

"Sorry boys, I'm _so_ changeable," he said loudly, pushing me out in front of him, I stumbled dangerously near the pool, before regaining my balance.

"It is a weakness with me but to be fair it is my only weakness," I looked in the direction he was speaking, Sherlock and John stood still as stone.

"Oh do turn around boys, I've brought entertainment," the men turned to face us slowly, me scrabbling on the ground, my hands still tied I squirmed like a tipped over turtle.

John's eyes widened but Sherlock simply stared at the man with the funny voice and the twisted mind.

"I've found little Claire Powers, her death, unlike her brother's won't be quite so mysterious, especially since you both will have the privilege of witnessing it. Rather poetic really, bringing her to die in the pool her brother died in, although I haven't poisoned her, just weighed her down a bit." he smirked before he kicked and I, helplessly handicapped, tipped over the edge into the water. I had just managed to get a breath before I was enveloped by the cool, chemical filled water.

I opened my eyes as I sank to the bottom of the pool, once I landed on the bottom I tried to wriggle free of the jacket. I soon realized the impossibility of this task due to my arms being fastened at the back. I desperately hoped someone would save me, or even shoot me, anything but drowning. I had always wished I would die without knowing it were happening, but I guess that's out of my control now.

I didn't know how much longer I could hold my breath, I was a fairly good swimmer and had a fair lung capacity. However I could feel my constitution fading fast, my chest tightened and my throat started to burn. I knew soon I would slip up and inhale the water surrounding me. Sherlock and John must be dead by now, Carl's killer long gone, and me stuck in the bottom of a pool, terribly aware of my own immanent demise.

I felt the previously still water shift around me, just as my breath finally left me and I felt the chlorine burning it's way into my throat and sinuses. I felt a tug on my wrists as my vision started blackening around the edges.

I felt lighter as my vision blackened completely, I felt buoyant, I must be dying, it wasn't nearly so bad as I had imagined.

Then I felt overwhelming cold, this only confirmed that I must have died, everyone always talked about feeling cold. This must've have been what it felt like to be without a warm body, would I be going to an afterlife or would I just be engulfed into the abyss, I wondered.

My thoughts were interrupted by a painful pressure on my heart, it felt like I was being beaten, I had assumed the pain of dying was over. The pressure continued, racking my entire body, I felt a light, airy sensation filling my mouth.

Immediately I sputtered up the water from my lungs, the liquid drizzling down my soaked chin and neck. I rolled over and heaved and coughed up water, no longer was my head filled with thoughts of death, I was in so much pain I must still be alive, because I assumed that such pain was only possible in life.

"Is she alright?" I heard a comfortingly familiar voice next to me.

"Claire?" A second familiar voice asked, "Claire can you hear me?" John Watson asked from behind me as I breathed heavily.

I rolled back over, John's sweater damp in a few places, concern written throughout his weary face. Sherlock stood drenched behind John, stripped down to his shirt and trousers, he had stopped in the middle of pacing, which he seemed to do when anxious. He immediately walked round and crouched down at my other side, and studied me intently as I lay there exhausted and panting.

"You saved me?" I asked breathily as I turned to face him.

He stared at me, directly into my eyes as only he seemed capable of doing, I was filled with immense surprise at this development in our odd acquaintance. I smiled still weak from my brush with death, "I'd hug you but I'm in a bit of a state," I smiled weakly, Sherlock's stare and slight smile unwavering until John cleared his throat.

"Did he get away?" I demanded, determined not to draw any attention to the moment I just shared with the most frigid and insensitive man I'd ever met.

John looked at me solemnly and nodded, "He was going to kill us all, but..."

"But what?" I asked, trying in vain to sit up, but my lungs and stomach were still burning, so I lay back down.

"But he got a phone call," Sherlock said.

"A phone call..." I repeated, pondering for a moment, "What was his name?"

"He didn't tell you?" Watson furrowed his brows as he stood.

"No I only spoke to him for a moment or two before he brought me out here, and I really don't remember his name from school, I do remember his face though..."

"Moriarty, Jim Moriarty," Sherlock said as he stood and walked over to a nearby bench while John helped me to my feet. I was shivering, my trainers soaked through and squelching with every bit of extra pressure induced on them.

"Here," Sherlock handed his suit jacket to me, because although he was also soaked, he was neither shivering nor wearing so little as myself standing there in a thin black t-shirt.

I wrapped the dry fabric around me tightly and bit down on my lip to stop my teeth chattering.

"So what on Earth are we supposed to do now?" I asked as John slipped off his cardigan and forced me to put it on underneath Sherlock's jacket which did little to silence my chattering teeth.

"We should probably call Lestrade," John said reasonably.

And so we did, I gave my nearly useless statement of what happened, the boys gave their much more interesting ones, and we all finally got to go home.

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><p><strong>So there you have it folks! Season all done, not sure what I'll post next, might be some randomness from my own mind or I might just jump forward to Scandal in Belgravia (which has already been started) but either way I'm done with this story yet so stay tuned, I hope to post at least once more by the end of the week :)<strong>


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